Life in Plastic (Styrene, specifically)

Lessons Learned (Pt. 2)

Author's note: This is something I composed ten years ago. Not sure why I held off on hitting the "Publish" button back then.

 

"I've got somebody interested in you building a model."  The call came from my friend Ed Kaminski.  He ran a really interesting place called The Military Art Gallery.  It was a classy art gallery dedicated to -- you guessed it.  His place was located in the city of Mount Clemens which was almost within spitting distance of Selfridge and wasn't terribly far from where I lived.  He had a web site and kindly gave me a bit of space there.  My business card made reference to "Three-Dimensional Aviation Art," so I felt quite comfortable associated with Ed's business.

One of his print buying customers, "Mark", decided he wanted a collection of 48th scale models flown by the aces.  All the aces.  Ed told him about me, and me about Mark.  The initial phone call was made.  Mark lived in Texas and was a football referee.  He seemed to know WW II aviation quite well.  The first project on the agenda was the F4F flown by Joe Foss at Guadalcanal.  This was pretty easy.  Joe Foss certainly flew any F4F that was ready to go at the time, but he apparently flew a typically nondescript  Wildcat number 50 most often.  If that made it "his" airplane, so be it.

What had me really excited about the collection Mark was envisioning, was that he wanted little vignettes consisting of the airplane on a small base and a pilot figure standing nearby.  Man and his machine -- each useless without the other. To my mind, that's what the air combat thing was all about.

So the Wildcat project went ahead.  With the Tamiya kit out there, it was about as easy as it could get.  I modified a Monogram pilot figure a little bit, painted him up and stood him in front of the airplane, and hoped he looked a little like Joe Foss.  I sent Mark photos and he was very pleased.  Final payment was made, I said a prayer and shipped it all down to Texas.  It arrived in perfect condition and Mark was quite happy.

I don't think the project went on for much more than a month.  During that time I got quite a few calls from Mark.  He just wanted to talk airplanes and models and compare notes with me on aces and their machines.  I respected the guy for his willingness to open books and do a bit of research.  He, like myself, was concerned with getting things right.  In the middle of the project he sent me a copy of a big coffee table book of aviation art.  It had Foss's Wildcat No.50 on the cover.  Mark said he got a good deal on it, as it had a damaged dust cover.  There was certainly nothing wrong with the book itself and I thanked him very much.

In addition to selling art prints, Ed and his Military Art Gallery occasionally put together symposiums that brought together pilots or crew members that made names for themselves in battle.  He managed to contact two or three ex-Flying Tigers and made arrangements to bring them to his gallery.  From there, they'd go to a theater in Mount Clemens and give a talk and sign items.  Mark was hot to go to this thing, and it determined the subject of his second project from me.  He wanted a model of the airplane flown by the highest scoring member of the AVG, Bob Neale.  This task was not so clear cut.

If there was ever any firm documentation connecting Bob Neale to one airplane in particular, it hadn't surfaced at that point.  The simple fact is that people were not running around with cameras taking pictures of heroes with their airplanes throughout WW II.  There were more pressing matters, especially in the early days when the outcome was far from certain.  The important thing was to have as many airplanes and pilots up and running as possible and not be fussy about who was flying what.  And of all the photos that were taken, not all of them were published anyplace.  This may not go down well with the ace-obcessed, but that was the reality.  I was not going to spend any of my time hunting for something I was sure would not be found.  I told Mark that I'd make his model look any way he wanted.  I provided my thoughts on the subject.

Mark had a recently published book by an ex-Flying Tiger in which the author described Bob Neale saving his ass by shooting a Nate or something off of it.  The author stated that he knew it was Neale because of the number 23 he saw on the Hawk's fuselage.  We'd go with a number 23 on the model.  Fine.  If that was "Neale's airplane" or not, I wasn't going to argue.  On that particular sortie, it allegedly was.  Mark also wanted the full 15 kill score displayed on the fuselage.  We decided that with all those kills showing, it would have been late enough in the Flying Tiger's history that the airplane could've been sporting the tiger insignia that eventually got displayed on the fuselages of the surviving planes.  So, white 23, 1st squadron Adam and Eves badge and white band, 15 meatballs and the Flying Tiger insignia.  For an AVG airplane, this would be pretty snazzy.  (And unlikely, in my mind, but it's what the client wanted.)

There were many phone calls from Mark during the Flying Tiger project.  He clearly was excited to have found someone who spoke and appreciated his own language.  I sent him photos of other models I'd finished for reference to models he wanted to see up the road and we discussed those.  And we spoke of the Flying Tiger symposium coming up.  The plan was for the model to be finished for that event, Mark would fly in, take in the program and take his model home with him on the flight back.  This couldn't work out better.  I'd meet the guy and I wouldn't have to box the model and sweat out the shipping to Texas again.

I don't remember there being a problem with getting the project done on time.  I sent Mark photos of the much fancied up Monogram "Tiger Shark" and the Verlinden pilot figure standing nearby, posing as Bob Neale.  Mark was very happy with what was coming his way.  We discussed his coming to Detroit, and I agreed to collect him Metro Airport.  This would be a 200+ mile round trip for me, but I thought it would be worth it in the long run.  Mark was a very interesting guy on the phone, and Ed Kaminski assured me he was a respectable buyer of prints.  Plus he was into this historic aviation business deep enough to fly up from Texas to hear old veterans talk about their exploits.  He'd been to at least one of these symposiums previously.  This all suggested to me the guy would be valuable to get in real good with.  And the simple fact was, I hardly ever got to meet the people that bought my models.  I longed to see the faces when they first viewed their new acquisition.

The Friday of the event arrived.  I took the model to Ed's gallery and parked it on a shelf there for all the Flying Tiger fans due that weekend to see.  Then I was off to Detroit Metro to meet Mark.  I would meet him as he deplaned.  I'd asked him how I'd know him, never having seen his picture.  He told me not to worry; he'd know me. He'd seen my image on the Military Art Gallery's web site.  I'm sure I added something about spotting the short guy with the red hair.

I got to the airport in plenty of time.  The DC-9 rolled up, the people tube was attached, the door at the arrival gate opened and passengers started streaming out.  I stood there with a grin on my face and waited for a smiling Mark to reach out and shake my hand.  I was once again amazed at how many people they could stuff into an airliner as all the folks strolled past.  All the folks did stroll past.  None of them to my knowledge gave me a second look.

What happened?  Did he miss his flight?  He must've.  Now what the hell do I do?  Would he be on the next one?  When and where would that one arrive?  What do in the meantime?  %$#@!  Don't panic.  I did what I was supposed to do.  I played my part.  Who to call.  Of course I didn't have Mark's number on me.   I could call home but nobody would be there to answer late in the afternoon.  If Mark had left some sort of a message, it wouldn't be until Molly got home from work that I'd know what it was.  In the meantime, what to do -- where to go.  %$#@, %$#@, %$#@!  Few things make me crazier than losing or wasting time.  My time literally is money.  No team of elves labors at my workbench when I'm not there.  Time spent wandering an airport is time NOT spent working at Hawx Planes.

So I wandered.  I called home and left Molly a message that things had gone off the rails, and a plan B had yet to be formulated.  After maybe 40 minutes of great unhappiness, who did I discover at a pay phone but Ed Kaminski!  He was there to collect his Flying Tiger celebrities who had yet to arrive.  "Did you hook up with Mark?" he asked.

"No.  He missed the plane apparently."

"He's here."

"WHAT!?"

"Yeah.  He wanted to know if I'd seen you anyplace."

I told Ed my short unhappy story, with a mix of great relief and extreme puzzlement.  This turned to a good bit of anger when I realized Mark had not missed his plane and had marched right past me.  Marched past and went where?  I'd hung around the gate for some time.  I was not to worry, he'd know me.  Yeah, right.  I called home again and this time Molly was there to answer.  I filled her in on the new development.  I think Mark had called.  I know Molly said his wife had called and she sounded a bit accusatory over the situation, like I was screwing up her husband's vacation or something.

This was nearly seven years ago and I don't remember exactly how I knew to find him at a bank of pay phones, but that was the new plan.  Nor do I remember how I was to recognize him, unless Ed told me what he was wearing.  However it worked out, I found an oldish guy in jacket and tie on the phone with someone, I assume his wife.  I stood in front of him and smiled, and he stared at me.  Not a hint of recognition.  "Mark?" I asked.  He studied me like I was some strange bug.  What on earth was he expecting?  He'd know me, he'd said.

When it finally clicked in his brain, he told the person on the other end of the phone good-bye and hung up.  I don't remember any overly friendly greeting or smiles.  Maybe there was a handshake.  What there wasn't was any kind of apology for his dropping the ball here and wasting a good chunk of time for both of us.  We did a long walk to the car, then headed off in the direction of his hotel.  The good news was that he did seem to be a smart and interesting guy.  Maybe we just got off on the wrong foot.

As it was late in the day, he wanted to buy me supper.  Cool.  He picked some uninspiring family style place near his hotel.  It wasn't the kind of place you'd expect much from, but Mark found a few things not to his liking.  If you want a four star experience, go to a four star place, I thought.  Whatever I had was satisfactory.  When we finished, Mark went to pay the bill.  He got into an extended conversation with the hostess at the cash register.  I was a short distance away from the conversation and only heard snippets.  Mark's tone was matter-of-fact; the hostess's apologetic.  I believe Mark talked his way out of paying what may have been a $25 bill. 

From there I took him to Ed's place to meet Flying Tigers and see his model.  The old pilots beamed like happy grandfathers -- which they probably were.  Roy Grinnell the aviation artist was there too, with a painting featuring Tex Hill and his P-40 in action.  He didn't know who I was, and I watched and listened as he pointed to my model and told somebody it was very nice, and based on some of the details, he'd have to say whoever was responsible knew his stuff.  That was mighty nice to hear.  I'm pretty sure Mark heard it too.

The Friday evening thing wound down and it was time for me to be heading home.  It was at this point that I came to know what Mark had mistakenly figured was the plan.  To his dismay, he found out I did not buy any ticket to the Saturday symposium, had no interest in attending and surprise, suprise, I was not going to be his personal taxi and tour guide for the weekend.  And it dawned on me that I was expected to take this guy (who I was finding less impressive) back to the airport on Sunday morning.  Another 200 miles and too many hours "donated" to the Flying Tiger project.  Well...at least I didn't have to ship the model.

So I got up early that Sunday to finish wasting a big chunk of weekend.  I got to Mark's hotel to load him up and hear that on second thought, he didn't want to carry the model home with him.  My shipping it would be fine.  Ohhhh, the icing on the cake.  Wasn't a hand delivery a major attraction of this weekend for me?

He got off without a hitch, having saved a small fortune in taxi fees for the weekend.  I thought about the book he'd sent me early on and that kind of clicked into place.  Cheap, damaged goods.  Mark was all about getting more for less -- or nothing.  He called shortly thereafter to report the model arrived in fine shape.  I don't remember what project he was considering next.  I don't know if he detected any change in my tone when we spoke on the phone.  He did ask when I was sending some more model photos.  He'd gotten a new photo album specially for them.

Well wasn't that interesting?   Buying a couple models meant he got a free subscription of model pictures too?  I gathered all the reject photos I could.  Out of focus, light leaked, nose/tail/wingtip cut off, packaged them up and sent them to Texas.  I can't imagine I sent any kind of note.  I expected the message to be clear.

I don't know if Mark's ace collection has expanded since then, but he's only gotten the two from me.  I didn't charge him nearly enough.

Father's Day

I wrote most of this, this past Father's Day. Meant to post it in a timely fashion. It fell behind schedule the way so many things in my life seem to do.

 ONE

My dad introduced me to models and airplanes. As a little kid I couldn't get enough of his authoritative wisdom on the subjects.

His main interest was control-line models, but he also dabbled in plastic. I remember mostly jet subjects and a few bi-planes.The very first plastic model memory is of him working on a Monogram Grumman Albatross. No photos exist of what he did with those kits, but certainly they were strictly out-of-the-box with minimal painting. He wasn't fussy.The majority of his plastic planes decorated the ceiling of his sons' bedroom. One by one they would come down as play toys - fragile, brittle play toys - and they'd meet their end. Neither my brother nor I had any sense of respect for dad's little creations. Pity he didn't impart that on us. Maybe he genuinely didn't care. Anyway, as a result, dad's work in plastic remains only fading memories in my head.

There does exist one souvenir of his balsa work. The last flying model he built was to be a radio-control trainer type. He did the easy part, which was to put the kit together. Learning transmitters and receivers and servos and any other high-tech electronic stuff wasn't him. By the time he built the model, the work needed to support all the kids he brought into the world was stealing away any play time he ever had. So the fuselage and the rest of the unattached components collected dust in the basement. Eventually someone stuffed it all into a top shelf and it was forgotten.

My mom still lives in the house. Some years after dad died I was snooping around the basement - for all intents and purposes it was my basement for some years - and I found this fuselage, and only this fuselage. The wings and everything else...no trace. Other than the kids dad produced, this is about the only physical evidence he left behind.

I brought it home with me. It lives in the garage rafters, as useless as any incomplete old treasure can be. Occasionally I hold it and examine the tight fits and the smooth finish and try to imagine dad bringing it to this stage. What were his thoughts? What did he think of his work? What kind of craftsman was he really? Did he have any feelings about abandoning this last project of his? So many questions I'd like to ask him. His heart stopped in 1995. He was 67.

TWO

Sadly, we were not a very tight father and son. As his interest in airplanes faded in direct ratio to mine expanding, I felt betrayed somehow. The breaking point came in the summer of 1970. I was 14. The Thunderbirds came to town in their Phantoms. I only learned of this the Thursday before the show. I happened to be in the house when a TV news program was on, and they showed a snippet of the Thunderbirds arrival at Selfridge. Stay tuned for more details. So I stayed glued to the set until the local news ended. Not another word was mentioned. What the hell? 

I stayed up for the 11 o'clock news program, hoping there was a timing glitch or something earlier in the day. It paid off. The very last segment was a minute or so given to those beautiful red, white and blue F-4Es arcing over Selfridge. This Saturday and Sunday, come one, come all. The weather forecast for the weekend was very good. Oh boy! Oh boy! Because dad was long ago in bed, I'd have to wait until the following afternoon to fill him in.

Dad came home from work and I met him at the car. Guess what! Guess what! Will we go tomorrow or Sunday? Yes it was short notice, but this was the Thunderbirds! This was the Thunderbirds in their brand new Phantoms! A full-blown airshow, not some ordinary base open house! It simply didn't get any better!

Well, dad had to work Saturday, and Sunday he and mom were locked into a dog show downtown. We wouldn't be going.Talk about stunned. So much of the kick-in-the-gut feeling came from his "it doesn't matter" attitude. Did he know what not going would mean to his son? If there was any kind of apology for my disappointment, it's lost to time. All I remember was his lack of interest. It blew me out of the water.It was as if for years he led me to the gates of the promised land, with some tastes of it along the way, then when we actually arrived, said, "We won't be going in."

My grandparents took me Saturday. Due to their schedule, we could only stay until an hour or so before the Thunderbirds would fly. This was too much. To only see them on the ground? I had a single card left to play.

I talked a friend of dad's into taking me on Sunday. Rich was the closest thing I had to a big brother. He was in his early 20s, totally unattached, had a good job and for some reason had taken a significant interest in me and my brother. He wasn't totally free on Sunday, but he promised to do what he could do. We got there about 20 minutes before the Thunderbirds took off. It was a close thing. Rich and I stood right at the wooden fence and I took some snaps with my Instamatic. Richard knew nothing in particular of airplanes and was rightly impressed. He thought it had been worth the rush to get there. God bless him.

If there was any discussion of the show with my dad afterward, I don't remember it. He and mom had progressed in their goal of getting a Weimaraner puppy, which was the important thing. The trade-off was losing ground with his first son that he'd never fully recover.

Sure like to have a few beers with you, dad. Talk about some stuff.

Like to have a few beers with Richard too. He was essentially assassinated in downtown Detroit in 1979, I think it was. Shot in the chest in broad daylight. Left a wife and young daughter behind. No one was ever arrested.

 

 

Going Public

The very first place any of my models were seen outside of my neighborhood or school classroom was at the nearby shopping mall. It was a brand new landmark christened Universal City. In its heyday there were three different stores under its big roof that stocked plastic model kits. Naturally I tried to visit as often as I could. Not long after its opening, (I was 10 or 11) they put out the call to the general public to take advantage of their open central courtyard and display examples of whatever one did as a hobby. My mother brought this opportunity to my attention. I was proud of my models and hot to show them off. I picked what I thought were my four best (the freshest off the production line, probably) and with my folks, delivered them in boxes to the hobby display officials. There were three single-engine WWII prop fighters (pretty sure one was a Revell C.R.42) and a Monogram Bf.110.

The display was a Saturday/Sunday thing and naturally the Hawkey family had to stop by to see my contributions. My quartet were the only models of any type to be seen. That pathetic little foursome swept the category. I can still see them all alone with the '110 dominating on sparsely covered tables. Though the experience was hugely positive for me, I believe the show in general was a flop. I know there was never an encore performance put on by Universal City.

Seeing my models was a thrill in itself, but the icing on the cake for me was that all participants received small gift certificates good at any of Universal City's many stores. Mine was for $2 and I took it straight to the mall's hobby shop. I swapped my certificate for an Airfix SBD and OS2U (fresh in MPC boxes with the chrome "custom detail" sprue, and flamboyant, totally useless decals) and a can of Testors Dullcoat spray. Man, talk about a happy kid!

My second public performance was much more significant to me. I was probably 14 and becoming a regular visitor to the original Squadron Shop. Half the time I would get there via my dad, whose interest in model planes was warming up again with exposure to this serious model shop. Walt Lonczinski  and Jerry Campbell were the two main guys behind the counter in those days. (Walt was the front man while Jerry was mostly in the back on the phone or seeing to mail order.) Walt blew my young mind one visit when he asked if I'd be interested in building a model for the store. Don't know why I was given the offer as they'd not seen any of my "work" before. Maybe it was to humor the most frequent kid customer and score some points with his dad.

The subject was a Lindberg 1/48 F-104. Walt gave me the kit and a couple A.I.R. decal sheets (national insignia and black letters/numbers/ANG stuff) and the instructions, "Just put it together and paint it. Nothing fancy. We just want to see what one of those looks like built."

My first commission job! I got home and dove into a free model airplane kit. Following instructions, I gave it a no-frills finish of overall ADC gray (I guess you'd call it -- light gray at any rate) and nervously returned with the finished piece the following week.

No big fuss was made, as none was deserved. They got what they wanted. The gray Starfighter was parked in the back row of a bottom shelf in a display case where it could be seen if one looked for it. That was that. I had a model in the Squadron Shop!

Naturally I had to give it a look every time I visited thereafter, but I had no illusions that it really belonged in the Squadron Shop. This was where the world-class stuff came to roost. My goal was to one day produce a model which did belong at eye-level on an upper shelf in one of those sparkling big display cases, but that day was four years in the future.

Before that day arrived, the Starfighter went missing. Don't know when I noticed its absence and I certainly didn't ask about it. Victim of some house cleaning, no doubt. Maybe they sold it to a Starfighter fan for a couple bucks. At any rate, it served its purpose and was no great loss.

 

Molly's Tornado

This originally appeared as a guest editorial in FineScale Modeler magazine, February 2006. (Without illustration.)

 

In the middle 1980s, I served my pro modeler "apprenticeship" with contract work from out of state. The business was mostly in mahogany model imports, but occasionally someone would want a subject not available in wood, so one of the handful of guys where I worked would get the kit, decal sheet, work order and a deadline. Those deadlines were tight and firm.

At the time, I was dating Molly. When I had to work a few Saturday nights on models that were on a short schedule, she would come to my place just to hang out.

"Can I help?" she asked one evening. Hmmmm. Maybe. I gathered all the big pieces I could find and showed her how to fit and glue. She did a nice job on the simple stuff, but I was reluctant to turn her loose on detailing. Then I got to thinking, if she was game...

"Want to build something for yourself?" I asked.

"Sure. OK."

I rummaged around in my model storage above the garage rafters for an expendable kit and found a 1/72 scale Monogram Tornado. Perfect. Something simple that I wouldn't miss. I told Molly a little bit about the subject, and with all my tools, supplies, and coaching at her disposal, she was off.

Keep in mind Molly had no real background in crafty kinds of things. Her interests had been more athletic and intellectual, so she was not used to working with her hands on small objects. I don't think she enjoyed it all that much. She was determined though, and I think she wanted to impress me.

The painting stage meant teaching her how to use an airbrush. I mixed paints and thinned them for her but didn't worry too much about correct shades of color.

"This is the fun part," I told her.

I think the fun was lost on her as she tried to shift focus between the model and the camo pattern on the instructions. She might have enjoyed it less too because she knew I was a stickler for accuracy.

When the paint was dry, I introduced her to decals. "This is the fun part," I said, trying to encourage some enthusiasm from her.

"I thought painting was the fun part," she said.

I corrected myself: "Decals are the funnest part."

With many tiny "No Step" decals to be aligned perfectly down the length of the wing, Molly found decals to be no fun at all. The noises made and words mumbled as she fought slivers of slippery material with her tweezers made me wince. But she finished it.

She seemed delighted that she had seen the project through to the end. (By my rough estimate, it was 80 percent her work.) And though she didn't ask to try another, I think she developed a much better appreciation for what I do. That was worth a lot.

Molly's been my wife for 16 years now. Her Tornado shares showcase space with my own small collection. When she inquires about my model projects, and the subject of decals is mentioned in any way, she unfailing reminds me in the tone of an expert, "They're the funnest part."

Saint Patrick's Day

In the interest of keeping the blog current, and because the day might have a little extra significance for me, I present this post.

I suspect I was named Patrick by my dad's insistence. His mother was pretty solidly Irish, his dad...we really don't know. Apparently among other things, he had native American blood running in his veins; don't know what else for sure. The name Hawkey is common in Cornwall, England, but it has also been suggested it's an Americanization of the Irish "Haughey." Again, don't know and don't really care. My mom is solidly Polish/German.

Dad stressed his Irishness and his kids largely followed suit, however fractional it in fact was. I have a decidedly northern European look, with light skin, freckles and red hair. I look like a resident of Ireland or Scotland. I'm really drawn to the music, that's for sure. I used to make a fuss over my patron saint's day. Certainly did when I reached drinking age.

I think the year was 1982, which would have made me 26. That particular St. Patrick's Day, my buddy Dave and I went to play racquetball. (Remember racquetball? I spent an awful lot of time on racquetball courts back then.) Anyhow, I brought enough money to pay for my half of the court rental, and another three dollars. I did this deliberately. I knew if I brought more, the temptation would be way too great to not stop after just a couple beers afterward. It would be way too easy for me to become a most stereotypical Paddy, drunk on his ass before I got home. I really didn't want that.

So after our shower, Dave says, "Let's go get some beer."

"Fine," I told him, "But I've only got three bucks on me."

"Hell, no problem," he said in a rare demonstration of generosity. "It's on me."

The seeds were sown.

Dave was a big fan of the bar scene in downtown Detroit. Because he was driving, that's where we headed. No doubt we started with beer, but eventually we graduated to Canadian Club. Of course the bars were hoppin' and good times were all around us. At some point I switched to gin, which I was beginning to acquire a taste for. We may have snacked on pretzels or something, but nothing more substantial. As usual, I was the first one to start slowing down -- Dave was three times the night person I was. One more for the road at last call, and back on to I-75 north and home. Miraculously Dave managed to keep the car between the lines and didn't run into anything. How much had we consumed? Significantly more than was required, that I can say with certainy.

Three miles from my place, Dave decided he needed to take a leak. He stopped behind a local mall and headed for a snowbank. Regrettably I was not so drunk as to be passed out. Evidently something in my impaired reptilian brain snapped. I wanted to go home, damn it. I did not want to stop here. I was suddenly and totally pissed-off. While Dave was relieving himself, I exited the car and made for an opening in a wall that divided the mall back alley and an apartment complex. If Dave wasn't going to take me home as fast as I wanted, screw it. I'd get there on my own.

So Dave returns to his empty car and assumes I'm off doing what he had done. Don't know how long he sat there before thinking, where the hell is that guy? He got out, called, called a little louder, and searched a bit. The panic began to rise. What the hell? Where is he? Did he get abducted by aliens? Did he pass out in a snowbank? That could be a very bad thing. Hypothermia is no laughing matter. Foot search revealing nothing, Dave got in his car to continue to search. Where to look? What to look for? A moving figure or a dark shape on the ground?

Meanwhile, fueled by alcohol and anger, I plodded through the apartment complex, eventually emerging on a main artery in the form of a freeway service drive that would take me to my neighborhood. Hands buried in pockets, head down (no hat, of course) I stomped into the wee hours of the morning. Eventually I came to an intersection and looked up to determine my progress. Cold and tired, I stared at the sign illuminated by mercury vapor street lights until it came into focus. To my shock and horror, the cross street name revealed I'd been trucking in the wrong direction for two miles. Are you f*ckin' kidding me? When did I cross the previous mile road?

So while Dave was desperately driving around to logical locations in search of his buddy, I unintentionally foiled him by doing a wrong-way Corrigan routine. Unbelievable. All I could do was turn around and retrace my steps, and basically restart my journey home. What should have been a three mile walk was in fact going to be about seven.

Dave was seriously wondering if he'd in fact had a hand in killing his buddy. He spotted a cop car at a 24-hour restaurant and lied to the officers that he'd spotted some drunk wandering around the main drag and if you see him, you might want to pick him up. They promised they would. Dave had a tiny posse now, at least.

I remember nothing of my stroll other than cold and utter solitude. Not a car, not a person did I see. I also didn't see a big water-filled hole in the ground until I stepped in it and totally soaked one of my shoes in freezing water. Nice. Eventually, I did get to my parent's darkened house around four. I climbed up the stairs to the bedroom I shared with my brother and collapsed on the bed, and was instantly out. The next thing I knew, I was being slammed against the wall by my coat by Dave. Hoping against hope, he entered the house (we never locked doors) and crept upstairs to see if my bed was empty or not. It was not, and he let me know of his displeasure.

"You f*cking idiot! Where were you? Where the f*ck did you go!? I looked everywhere for your stupid ass! Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead! Don't you f*ckin' ever do anything like this to me again! Asshole!"

It was not the time for explanations, but I promised I would never do anything like this again.

The next day I woke to one of those dry-heaving hangovers that makes you swear you'll never sip anything again. NEVER! In fact to this day, the aroma of gin is good for unpleasant flashbacks. I made up with Dave that night and we swapped our separate stories. 

My dad used to say, "The Lord looks out for drunks and idiots." If so, the Lord or somebody must've been watching me that night. Watching and shaking his or her head.

All these years later Dave and I can laugh. All these years later though, the memory of that night and the festive occasion for it remains. And you'll have to excuse me if I don't wear green on March 17, and insist on staying home in the evening. Might even work on a model. The rest of the world? Knock yourselves out!

Men on the moon/models on the table

On this day in 1969 Neil Armstrong did what made him famous. On this day in 1969 I was watching the event on the TV in my parent's kitchen. In front of me was a brand new Hasegawa RF-101 and T-33. Aw man, was I an excited kid. Never mind what was on TV. I'd pestered the guys at the Squadron Shop for at least a week with phone calls of "Is the T-bird in yet?" I don't know if I was even aware the Voodoo was coming. To have those two favorites in front of me at the same time was as good as it got. (Oh yeah, I'd also picked up a Fujimi F-8 to make it a trio, but the less said about the goofy-lookin' Crusader the better.) The ONLY fly in the ointment was the weird nose on the '101. I only knew them as fighters, not picture takers. Well, I could get used to the sharp slanted front end, I guess. Or could I?

This was one of rare times I can tie the event of getting a model plane as a kid to a real event. Odd how I can remember some models so clearly and others have faded away. I know I bought them, I know I built them, but without a photo I can conjure no mental image of a finished piece. Why, I wonder. Case in point is a kit I found on ebay and just received yesterday.
I bought this only because of the startling memory of first seeing at it Frentz & Sons Hardware store one morning at the end of a not-quite-one-mile bike ride. I recognized it as a repackaged "Memphis Belle" that I'd had previously and was long gone. The red trim had me sold instantly. I obviously had the two dollars required as I distinctly remember examining the box contents in the bright sunlight of our backyard. It seems I was wearing a light jacket, so I will guess it was spring or fall. If I had to bet, I'd say spring. The kit instruction sheet is dated 1967, so I'd have been 11.5 years old, more or less. I've got a picture of my model collection in the spring of '66. What kind of collection did the "Lady Luck" join a year later? How long did she stay a part of it and how did she end her stay with me? Haven't a clue. Though it has no bearing on anything at all, I'd like to know.

I can plot my childhood by school grades completed and teachers encountered easily enough. Plotting by models built isn't quite as easy. For whatever reasons, the chronology of kits obtained and built has gotten more interesting to me as I age. When exactly did I stumble across a particular kit at the hardware store, or Ray's hobby shop? In most cases today I can determine an old kit's release date, so my finding it as a kid couldn't have happened before that point in time. That solves some mystery.

I've just finished up a Tamiya 1/100th jet. I first discovered that line of kits at Frentz's on an evening one summer. (The Tamiya website indicates the first of this line was released December 1968, so I must've found them summer 1969. Six months to arrive in my home town? Things probably moved slower back then.) Huge excitement. Exotic Japanese imports, something I could easily afford, cool subject matter. I brought home the A-4 immediately and the A-7 the very next day. I can still see the basement layout where I stuck these little buggers together as quickly as I could with the tiny silver tubes of glue included with the kits. (That Japanese cement smelled somehow sweeter than the standard Testors tube glue. Exotic. I liked it.) It was during a warm, humid spell of summer. We had a pool in the backyard that beckoned, but I had these little attack jets to deal with and they took priority. I remember that so well.

Sigh.

It's the fantastic drowse of the afternoon Sundays that bored you to rages of tears

The unending pleadings to waste all your good times on thoughts of your middle aged years

It's the vertical hold of the things that you're told

For the everyday hero it all turns to zero

And there's all the more reason for living or dying

When you're young and your troubles are all very small.

  -- Queen

Lessons Learned (Pt. 1)

I'll call him Jake. He walked into my semi-local hobby shop and saw a 48th Monogram A-26 I'd done for Jim, the boss. Was it for sale, Jake wanted to know. No, Jim told him, but he knew the guy who'd built it, and maybe he could be coaxed to do another. So Jim called and gave me the interested party's phone number.  I called Jake and introduced myself. Jake was a busy business owner who built model planes himself, but not nearly as fast as he'd like to have them. He recognized quality when he saw it and bought finished ones from a couple local guys. He really liked the Invader, and if that kind of thing was typical of what I did, he'd be interested in having me build him a number of subjects. I told him I could certainly produce another A-26. (I'd be delighted to do another one for him simply because the second is always easier than the first.  And, I wouldn't have to put it -- or any of the others sure to follow -- in a box and ship them anyplace. That was a huge plus.) I rendezvoused with Jake at his office with a couple of my photo albums. He liked what he saw. We agreed on a price for an Invader and off I anxiously went. Oh boy! A serious collector in my own neighborhood! It doesn't get much better!

As is my standard practice with a first model for anybody, I go a few extra yards. So while we agreed to an out-of-the-box job, I refined and replaced a few things I did not do to Jim's, just to impress Jake. He seemed like the kind of guy that would notice these things. When it was done, I don't remember if I delivered it to Jim's for Jake to pick-up there, or if I took it to his office and left it for him. I do remember I didn't get to see his reaction.

I got a phone call later that day. It was Jake, and he wanted to ask me a few questions. He had one of these Invader kits in his stash and noticed I didn't incorporate a part or two into the one I'd delivered. Different versions, I explained. He had the Pro-Modeler version; I'd used the other less glamorous issue. Same model, different versions. What I'd delivered was accurate. I promised. There were a couple other minor issues he had, that I needed to explain. In the end, he was reassured that I wasn't trying to pull a fast one on him. I guess he was reassured, anyhow. He didn't want anything redone, and he didn't want his money back. But I was not used to having my guts tighten into knots as I defended my work. I should've initiated a policy then and there: If I have to defend, I'm not your guy. I quit.

I was a bit confused. Guys I built for in the past were interested in an accurate model. Either they knew accuracy or they trusted me to know accuracy. As for style, I always provided enough pictures of past jobs so that the recipient knew what to expect from me in the end. And as they were hiring me to build the model they wanted to see, my aim was to please them. The bottom line was always to give the buyer what he wanted. What exactly did Jake want?

For one thing, he wanted big. For another, he wanted detail. A pair of 32nd P-47s -- a razorback and a bubble top -- were soon on the agenda. He wasn't concerned with the outline problems the Revell kit possessed. That was a good thing. He was concerned with really serious cockpits, sway  braces, brake lines and things like that. He also wanted all the rivets left in place. (What!?! Fortunately there were no natural metal finishes to contend with.) With the kits, Jake supplied the Aero Detail volume on the P-47. (For those not familiar with this series, they are extravagant picture books focused largely on detail items of the particular airplane featured. The airplanes in the photos are mostly museum residents or restored machines.) I went through the book to the flagged pages with Jake. It didn't matter to him at all that some of the things he wanted to see on his model would not have been seen on a WW II participant. It dawned on me that Jake only wanted what he wanted. While accurate was supremely important to me, it wasn't a big deal to him. I found this exceedingly strange. The razorback was up first.

Since Jake agreed to pay a lot of money for his big, fancy Thunderbolts, and because I wasn't at all sure what would be acceptable in his mind, I made a point of visiting him with the work in progress at regular intervals. Seemed like a good idea at first. While he was relatively close by, it was still a good half an hour drive one way. When I got to his business, he'd inevitably be tied up with a client of his own, and I'd cool my heels there for much longer than I wanted to. Time being money, my profit was shrinking. For the most part, he was very happy with what was coming his way. The razorback was finished as a 78th FG job with the black and white checkered cowling and full invasion stripes. Of course it was quite striking to look at.  Even my mother-in-law commented. If it got her attention, it had to be a winner.

Jake loved it and paid the bill. On to the bubbletop.

Like the second A-26, this job promised to go much quicker. The color scheme and markings were decidedly more problematic, however. Featured in the Aero Detail book were three shots of a restored and flying P-47 in pseudo-Gabreski markings. "Zebra stripes", Jake called them. He wanted his model to wear these gray and green "Zebra stripes."  I lectured him on 56th FG markings and showed him pictures of Gabreski's airplane, but alas, none of it mattered. He wanted what he wanted. He wanted (to the best of my interpretation) a model of what the Zebra striped airplane he saw in the pictures would've looked like in WW II. Mighty strange to my thinking.

There were two problems. Number one was that we only had left side pictures of the airplane in question.  We decided it wouldn't be hard to make up what the right side of the fuselage probably  looked like. Problem number two was color. Between the three color photos of the same airplane, there was a wide difference in interpretation of just how dark or light the upper gray was. (This was a great lesson for those after "correct color" of historic airplanes. Color pictures can and do tell different stories sometimes.) I suggested we go with something similar to what Gabreski's colors probably were. I provided samples and Jake said fine.

By an extraordinary bit of fortune, while I was involved with this project, I had to make a trip past Kalamazoo, MI, where the P-47 in the photos actually lived. I made a point of making a small detour to the K-zoo Air Zoo to see the confounding machine. In another bit of fortune, she was parked inside and it was the mysterious right side that was facing visitors and their cameras. I took a couple pictures and showed them to Jake. Both the camo pattern and color questions were answered. 

With supreme confidence I painted the sumbitch. Ever cautious with Jake though, before I put any decals on, I took it to get his inspection and approval. He was excited. Looking real good. So I blazed ahead and finished it and delivered it. He was thrilled. I can't remember his exact words, but they voiced a positive opinion beyond anything I'd delivered thus far. It had been a challenge successfully  met. I got my fat paycheck and went home a happy camper.

A week and a half later, I got the phone call. "Pat, you're going to shoot me." Uh-oh. "I've been looking at this Thunderbolt and I don't like the gray on top. It's too dark."  He talked about the problem a bit more and there was an implication that for the amount of money he paid for this thing, he had a right to be happy.

Never mind the amount of time that went into this particular subject of color, never mind my bringing it to show before the decals went on, never mind that you happily paid me for that particular shade of gray...were some of the thoughts that went through my head. A reasonable response on my part would've been "Well, that's a shame. It's your problem, not mine." (Or a much more "colorful" and descriptive version of the same.) Instead, my mind raced to imagine how I was going to repaint one third of a very expensive finished model to make the whacko owner a happy guy. Remember, my aim was to please.

If Jake could've made the situation worse, in my mind, he did. He brought the model over to my place with a couple bottles of Model Master gray enamels and lectured me on correct colors. I don't recall ever being angrier about anything in the category of model airplanes. How much time (wasted) had been spent on this very subject? The only good news was that I'd get paid for the fix. This was Jake's admission that it wasn't all my fault.

Try this if you want a challenge. Take somebody else's finished, very expensive model airplane, and while it's completely intact, mask off all the decals on the top of it, and the canopy. Then repaint only the gray Zebra stripes. It's way too much like building a ship inside of a bottle to me. Talk about a brutal exercise in concentration. Don't break anything! Nothing but black thoughts floated through my mind the whole time. But professional that I tried to be, I got the job done.

I turned the reborn Thunderbolt over to Jake and for the second time, he was thrilled. Now it was his turn to work on it. I mentioned that he occasionally built models? This P-47 wasn't "weathered" enough to his eyes. Don't know what technique he used, but he had to show me his handiwork when he was done. Every single panel line was not darkened, but blackened. Brushed back in the direction of the airflow from all these black lines was black streaking. Quite a bit of time was spent ruining that model. Jake was aglow with his accomplishment.

I should've walked away from Mr. Jake at that point. The fact that he had lots of money, wanted lots of models and those models could be hand delivered, tilted me in the other direction. That says something about how I feel about putting built models in boxes and turning them over to UPS or FedEx. Plus I guess I figured if I was very careful about what I chose to do for the guy, I could keep myself out of trouble. 

The other interesting aspect to building for this guy, was that I got to see the work of some of my competition. Jake wanted a lot quickly. He knew I worked for other people too, and I wasn't able to supply all his "fixes" as quickly as he needed them. So he shopped around and I gave him the name and number of another guy I knew of who built for hire. I'll call him Flynn. Seeing other professional's approaches to  model building was an eye-opener. It was for Jake too. Except for the guy I turned him on to, I think he only went once or twice to the others. Jake felt he had to undo and redo all the models that came to him via the guys he found advertising in magazines. In fact one of my jobs for Jake came from the return of a job started by one of these guys. It involved some photo-etched parts, and apparently the builder decided he couldn't or didn't want to work with metal -- but not before making some serious inroads on the plastic parts. Very interesting, I thought, if you advertise yourself as a professional model builder.

Jake took a serious liking to Flynn and his work. So much so that Jake showed me everything he received and pointed to aspects he liked in particular that he wanted me to duplicate in my own models for him. Of course if I thought Flynn was getting it right, I'd be doing it that way myself. So I said OK, I'll see what I could do. That's what I said. What I thought was: This guy wants my work to look like somebody else's work -- or his own. He wants me to be an extension of his own hands.  He doesn't want my interpretation of anything. So I wrestled with the dilemma of to what degree do I give the customer what he wants. To the point of making my work look like someone else's? I had a big problem with that. Was that egotistical? Where should a true mercenary come down in an argument like this?

I got into a semi-comfortable groove with Jake building some straight out of the box jobs. One delivery was to his house. There he opened a closet to reveal a very impressive collection of expensive1/48th Hasegawa and Tamiya and Accurate Miniature kits. Since he wanted them all built, the choice was mine.  Which did I want to do next? I chose one of the three Hasegawa F-14s. I picked the VF-84 Jolly Rogers semi-low-viz (overall Light Gull Gray) edition. I owned one of them  myself, but had never built a Hasegawa Tomcat.

It promised to be a pleasantly simple job. Kit markings, and except for resin seats, straight out of the box. Well...for those of you unfamiliar with the Hasegawa F-14, it's not a kit to charge into -- as I did. There are literally about 300 pieces to the thing, and it doesn't exactly fall together. After I had over 20 hours into my project, I looked at it hard and didn't like what I saw.Things were sloppy and crooked and glued that way for all eternity. There's nothing quite like the sick feeling of knowing you've wasted an expensive kit and you must eat many hours of work. The only good news was that I had another to replace it with. So I told Jake there'd be a delay because I wanted him to have quality. He didn't have a problem with that.

Having learned what not to do the first time, Tomcat No.2 was pretty smooth. I had it painted and a lot of the decals on it. I called Jake to tell him to expect it shortly. I told him I was really liking the way it was looking. He commented that he thought the skull and crossbones markings looked especially good with the white. Ummmm...what white are you talking about Jake? There's no white on this airplane. Kit markings, remember? All gray.

Of course, of course, Jake didn't realize this. He wanted the early gray and white scheme on his model. He said kit markings, but he wanted...  %$$#&^ *@*^%$ %#$@&*%  $%%#*&. That was the end. If I couldn't get something as simple as this straight with the guy, screw it. More masking of decals and repainting a model that while not quite finished, was ever so close. I delivered it, Jake was thrilled. I didn't accept another kit to work on. I told him I'd start a Century Series job that he wanted. I had the kit. I did start the model. I didn't call Jake and he didn't call me. I suspect he was on the phone with Flynn. Very cool. The F-One-Oh-Whatever eventually went to somebody else. That was in 2002.  Jake still hasn't called. I wish Jake well, and hope his collection is continuing to grow.

Burnout etc.

BURNOUT

 

In 2005, I started noticing it. At first, I blamed the feeling on a particular job. That beast drained me of energy and spirit just by looking at it. I’d have to remind myself that yes, although it’s a big job, it will get finished. I know what to do. Just take it one step at a time. A significant paycheck waits at the other end. Just do what they pay you to do.

Of course it got finished to great rejoicing on my part, and I assumed things would return to normal. Not exactly. Seemed like every model I touched afterward had some aspect that made me want to avoid it. 2008 came up and was characterized by lots of work to hard deadlines and any lack of enthusiasm just had to be swallowed and forgotten. Just do the job. ’09 would be more relaxed.

    Relaxed, yes, but I just couldn’t seem to get any traction. “All you have to do is build models,” I’d tell myself. “What’s easier than that? What do you know better than that?” But the fact was I’d look for nearly any excuse not to go upstairs to the “factory” and do the work. (When one works out of one’s house there is always an excuse to avoid the business if you look for it.)

    The fact was, I was going to some lengths to avoid what was once a major source of enjoyment and satisfaction in my life. Had I outgrown the model-building thing? If I had to have a job I didn’t much like any more, I could certainly find one of those that paid better. (Or maybe not, living in Michigan.) I’d long suspected I’d been the target of mild depression. Was this the reason for my lack of spark, or was a string of frustrating jobs making me more depressed? At my annual physical, I was prescribed a light drug to address depression. I’m not fan of drugs, but I was willing to give it a shot.

    The consensus of everybody I discussed this with was that gee, maybe after 23 years of doing the same basic thing nearly every day, perhaps a break was in order. Truly, it had never occurred to me I could burn out on models. Nor had I believed it possible that in 23 years of doing it, could I take any significant time off. How could I rationalize taking time off my full-time “fun” job? Burnout was what happened to people with crummy jobs, right? What did I have to complain about other than the pay? So what if Hawx Planes had cost me my hobby? I still engaged in the activity constantly (whether I wanted to or not.) Plus I got paid something for it. Best of both worlds, right? I stopped all modeling activity for a couple months and pursued other interests. Thankfully, I’ve got other interests.

 

 

BACK IN TIME

 

    Not long after that visit to the doc, the monthly Squadron update arrived. As always, I flipped through to see the latest round of alleged “deals,” not the new stuff. (In my mind, “new” has come to be synonymous with complicated and pricey – two things I’d like to avoid.)

I’m a sucker for old kits. Old as in the ones I built when modeling was a source of excitement, not income. I always check the update's list of Airfix kits. I went through an awful lot of those as a kid. I have many memories of serious excitement with Airfix kits. I saw listed for all of $4.19 their original rendition of the Bf.109G-6. An Airfix ‘109G – what a waste of styrene, eh? Maybe. For me that one has some significance.

I first got my hands on one at the convergence in time of my joining IPMS, discovering the Squadron Shop and realizing an airbrush was an essential tool if I really wanted to pursue scale modeling. At that time, the Airfix Gustav was literally the only game in town. I bought the round wing-tipped Messerschmitt I always wanted in my collection, even though I listened to conversations about hard-to-fix outline problems the kit had. (Frog’s F had a better shape, but a G had so many more marking options.) However, I did not own an airbrush. I saw the paint jobs an airbrush – and only an airbrush – could do. It was an absolute necessity to do a convincing Luftwaffe mottled fuselage. I had the kit I so badly wanted done well, but not the tool to do the paint job.

 When could I ever own that tool? A decent airbrush and compressor represented some very serious money when I was 12. So I held off on building my Gustav. That was probably the first kit I didn’t buy and automatically build. Thus began an unbuilt kit collection. I’d have gotten to it eventually, though I have no memory of a finished model. What I remember most about the Airfix ‘109G is not building it and never owning another one.

So I put an order to Squadron together and tacked on that ‘109 kit, purely as a gift to myself. A little something for that child within, as it were. The box from Texas arrived and I saved examining the ‘109 for last. It was a rough-looking Messerschmitt to be sure. Though the decals were better than my original kit, the markings were still the same. The more I looked at the simplistic thing, the stronger I felt the urge to slam it together little kid style. Or what about little kid style with the benefit of 40 years experience? How about that experience and current tool/glue/paint technology. A quick bit of fun. Why not?

Now I had tried this exact same exercise a couple years previously as a possible cure for the blues I was experiencing. I went to the garage, found some oldies, and tried to build them “for fun.” I got all the big parts connected on two and put most of a paint job on one, but that’s as far as it went. I could not shut off the voice in my head that kept telling me, “You don’t have time for this. When it’s done, what are you going to do with it? You need to get to this job and that job. If you’re going to spend time on model planes, spend it on models that will pay you something.”

So those two, like so many others, were shelved for another day. Maybe. I recognize the endless tunnel of "another day" isn't as long as it once was.

Somehow this Airfix Messerschmitt was different. The voices in my head were absent. I concentrated on making the parts fit each other as well as I could and determined not to add a thing, and alter the kit as little as possible. The rivets would all have to go, but that was largely it. I’d produce a Bf.109G-6 as Airfix intended it to look. And what was wrong with that? Is it possible to accept shortcomings in a kit rather than go to significant lengths or expense to “fix” things? Where did it say that building them as they came, no matter how they came, was wrong? When model planes gave me the most joy, that was certainly the way I did it. That fact began to work on me. For want of a better word, I started to feel a “tingle.” Was I channeling 12-year-old Pat?

As a kid, “fixing” kits was not a concern. It wasn’t even a concept. After the idea of a collection took hold, having as many plastic airplanes in one place at one time was the important thing. Of course, I wanted to do as good a job building/painting/decaling as I could, but I gave no thought to changing things. Maturity brought accuracy issues and the heartache (and sometimes satisfaction when corrected) that came with it.

For years, I’ve collected kits I built or started to build as a kid. Most of these old Airfix/Frog/Revell kits don’t compare well with what superseded them from Japan and elsewhere. The new renditions reflect different thinking and values, which is terrific, but I don’t have any emotional connection to them the way I do the earlier generation of plastic. I’d buy the old ones (when I found them at good prices) just to have them, lift the sprues and look at them occasionally. Build them? I don’t know. So much work to make them “right.”

Wait a minute. “Right?” Right for who? How important is “right?” Important enough not to build a model airplane? Why? Let me give this some thought while I’m tingling...

 

THE KID’S COLLECTION

 

The Golden Age of my own model collection would’ve been the late ‘60s. I don’t think I ever broke the 50 mark, but at the high point, I was very close. Then came IPMS and the Squadron Shop and getting it right vs. getting it built. Most of the old collection quickly became obsolete and fodder for firecrackers and stuff. Some of my favorites I would try to rehab or fine-tune to higher standards, but the idea of just replacing them was much more interesting. Re-growing the all-important collection became a much slower project. Though it did grow, I don’t think the number ever again got much past 20.

In the late ‘70s, the idea of displaying model airplanes in flight took hold followed by an enormous amount of trial and error R & D to figure out an inexpensive and efficient way to mass-produce the stands required. Although there didn’t seem to be a good answer to this dilemma, I pressed on with my idea and soon had a good handful of nice models on matching stands. It would be so much faster to build models without landing gear and open canopies! Open canopies meant tricked-out cockpits. Before the age of resin cockpit detail, this aspect to model building was a guaranteed additional number of days’ work. (As it turned out, painting pilot figures, getting smooth undersurfaces with closed landing gear doors, maintaining good fitting and clear canopies and producing and tweaking the stands would erase that gained time and then some.)

At that moment, when the path ahead looked clear, almost all my modeling activity was redirected to what other people wanted.

For the first five years after creating “The Business,” I was simply too busy with the work to do any building for myself. I had a significant pile of close-to-paint-job models that had been destined for my own collection one day. I would occasionally pull them into the light, hold them at arm’s length…maybe fly them around a little…wistfully imagine what they’d look like painted and decaled, then put them back in their boxes. Naturally there was also the huge collection of unbuilts gathered over time to eventually be stuck together and become part of the finished mob on stands.

Then one day in the early ‘90s, I found myself at the Air Force Museum with some friends. Near the end of the long adventure with these guys, we were separated and I found myself in a haze of fatigue in front of the showcases that housed the Eugene Kettering model collection. This is a collection of hundreds of hand carved wood model planes in one eighty-something scale, I believe, on extended loan from the Kettering family. From the Wright Flyer to the modern jet age, nearly any airplane from any country you could think of, civilian or military, is represented; most in flight. Taken individually, the models were not impressive. Clear parts in particular – where there were canopies and such – were not fussy. Viewed as a group, as a collection though, it was awesome to behold. I had an epiphany there that day. I would do what I could do to create my own Kettering collection in 1/72^nd scale.

For the sake of numbers and the overall impact of a huge number, I saw that compromise was indeed possible (if not downright necessary.)  SO much time was devoted on my part to canopies and windows. They had to be crystal-clear, they had to blend into the skin of the airplane and there had to be a well-painted guy behind them. What if I just treated them like an ordinary part of the model and painted them with the rest of it? Black, or blue or silver would work. Simply something to denote an area of plexiglas. The implication took my breath away. Not worrying about keeping the clear parts clear had the effect of waving a magic wand over a significant percentage of my kit collection. Scores of models (bombers mostly) whose poor to horrible clear parts were huge stumbling blocks were suddenly viable members of my revised-look collection. Kits missing a clear part? A canopy? Produce the part with epoxy putty or resin! A bunch MORE kits suddenly had value again.

 Hell YES! I couldn’t wait to get back home and commence my black canopied Air Force. The enthusiasm for my new vision would conflict with paying jobs, of course. Nevertheless, I squeezed these “personal projects” in where I could.

My goal was to have as many as I could as quickly as I could. Inspired by the Kettering Collection, I cut corners. Markings weren’t important. The simpler the scheme, the better. “Weathering” wasn’t bothered with. As with what I saw at the Air Force Museum, (such as with a massive ant colony) the individual wasn’t important. The overwhelming number was what it would be all about.

As for stands, I’d gotten hooked on dark metallic blue. I also wanted displayed on those dark blue stands, data that pertained to the model. Type, unit and time period were tediously indicated by individual Chartpak letters and numbers pressed on to clear decal film and applied in strips. This was a carryover from my pre-Hawx Planes days and was a mistake. The idea of fast and simple models became just that: an idea.

I had 28 or 29 in a display case in our living room in 2005. With the last few, it had felt like I was just going through the motions. Then we had to move. The new house would have no room for the old showcase and I gave it to a pal of mine. The models had to be packed for a 100-mile journey. Though there were no antenna wires or anything like that to worry about, they were still plastic models, and as such, kinda fragile. They began to look to me like one more moving pain-in-the-ass I didn’t need. By that time my morale with things styrene and otherwise was sinking. We were saying good-bye to our dream house in a dream location. Next year I’d be 50. It all amounted to crossing a grim Rubicon.

Our new house belonged to people that were big fans of shelving. The upstairs bedroom that would be my model factory had shelves to accommodate my collection, but getting it on those shelves was low on the priority list. Once the essentials were unpacked and the work operation was up and running again to some degree, I pulled my little “gems” out of their boxes of Styrofoam peanuts and lined them up in good order. I hadn’t seen them for a few months, literally. What I noticed (and it concerned me) was that I felt no attachment to them at all.

There they sat, part of the scenery, collecting dust and taking minor damage for close to two years. Any enjoyment they’d given me was gone. It had been replaced by regret for the huge amount of time I’d invested in them rather than paying jobs. (Even if I listed them on eBay, who’d be interested in models that looked like mini-renditions of those mahogany jobs, at anything other than giveaway prices?) And this was not to mention the 40 or so other in-progress at one stage or another examples, mostly just waiting their turn in the paint shop. That big collection idea that had brought these into being seemed pretty dumb now. And if what I had wasn’t going to be part of a bigger group, mostly what I saw in them were compromises. They were not meant to be impressive on their own, and they were not.

 On top of that, the move had pointed to the utter impracticality of a plastic model collection. Even this simple sturdy bunch was tricky to move around. An uneasy feeling began to creep into my head and then firmly took hold there. A model collection for me was unimportant. My black-canopied bunch had hit their dead-end. The idea of my own model collection made as much sense now as saving my allowance for a nice bike. The time had come and gone.

I found a tall box in the garage and layered them in it separated by sheets of bubble wrap and put them in the attic. Out of sight, out of mind, out of potential danger and much less clutter to annoy me. About six months later, I bought myself an Airfix Bf-109G, and a tingling began. It's still there.

To be continued?

Don't talk to newspapers

It was July 1998 and the Thunderbirds were coming to town. A rookie Detroit News reporter was apparently given the assignment of finding some kind of story relevant to this event. Something led her to The Military Art Gallery's web site, (www.milartgl.com) and there she found me. Ed Kaminski kindly gave me and Hawx Planes space and exposure there at the time. The News reporter was intrigued by this professional model airplane guy to the point of giving me a call.

She was friendly enough, and asked if she could interview me over the phone. No problem at all, I told her. I don't recall specific questions, but it soon became obvious this woman hadn't the slightest idea what plastic model planes were. I'm not sure she was even aware that places called "hobby shops" existed. Over the course of about an hour, I filled the gaps in her knowledge as best I could without any visual aids. She said they wanted to send someone out to take pictures. Would that be alright? Hell, yeah. I'll take any and all the publicity I can get. So a day was set and having a fair degree of photo background myself, I waited anxiously for the  News photographer's arrival.

The guy that showed up in my driveway did not fit my mental image of photographer. He more fit my mental image of professional defensive lineman. This guy was huge. He brought with him a massive leather bag of cameras and lenses. We exchanged pleasantries and I led him upstairs to "the factory."

What I did was pretty new to this guy too. I had an F-86 that was ready for decals and I told him that my doing that would be as action-filled a shot as he was likely to get. So I commenced to laying decals on the Sabre and was photographed in the process. Film was obviously no object as the motor drive whirred away.

In the living room I had a display case. In it was my personal collection of 72nd jobs on stands. The photographer thought a shot of me with my creations might be worthwhile. I pulled a bunch out and put them on top of the case and I stood behind them. The picture guy did his thing as I smiled my proudest smile. Then he had an idea. What if I held a couple? Did I have a friend and foe combination? Of course I did. I picked up a Fw.190D and a P-51 by their tails. The photographer crouched down to get a low angle. "Can you hold them like they're fighting?"

Oh, I get it. Play with my toys. Unthinking, obediently, I struck a play pose. A clown pose. Shutter went click and at that moment my heart sank to my feet. I knew instantly that this was the photo they would use. This was the picture that would sell the most newspapers. My photographer friend, now enemy, departed and I was sick.

On my way to Selfridge the next Saturday morning, I stopped to grab a copy of the July 26 paper. My worst fears were realized.

Builder adds life to models

Tiny plastic planes are realistic down to the oil streaks -- and can cost $2500

RICHMOND TOWNSHIP --Patrick Hawkey never has flown an airplane, but he knows a thing or two about them.

Hawkey, or Capt. Hawkey as he has come to be known, has photos of more than 900 military, antique and jet model aircraft he has built since age 5. He has a story for each and remembers the hours it took making them -- even down to exact serial numbers, squadron insignias, exhaust stains and oil streaks. 

"When I am commissioned to build a model, I follow the client's specifications," said Hawkey, a perfectionist whose construction plant is his Richmond Township home. "If I wouldn't keep it for myself, it doesn't leave the shop."

His love of the plastic models began as a hobby. "Then I realized people started offering money for my work," he said.

Hawkey advertises in magazines such as Combat Aircraft, FineScale Modeler and Replica in Japan. Customers wait for their own collection pieces.

"People interested in these things know their stuff," Hawkey said. "They know what the model represents, and are pretty serious about history and sometimes have military backgrounds."

He said the most popular model requests are for American planes from the 1940s to 1980s, a period that encompasses World War II, and the Korean and Vietnam wars.

An out-of-state customer wanted a replica of a Lancaster, a British World War II bomber.

"He wanted to look into the windows and see everything you would find in a Lancaster," Hawkey said. "It was so intricate that I had to build some of the pieces myself that did not come in the kit."

The 20 inch wing Lancaster took 150 hours to build. Hawkey sold it for $2500.

Hawkey said he rarely gets such a huge project. Normally the jobs take about seven to 14 days. Prices depend on how much time is spent building the models.

Hawkey may have gotten his love of model building from his father, a hobbyist who also built model planes. Hawkey found himself drawn to the art when at 5 years old he got raves for a Hellcat F6F fighter he built.

"Ever since I can remember, I can take a plastic model to a level that's something to see." he said.

Hawkey has seven model planes displayed at the Military Art Gallery in Mt. Clemens, which is the only store that carries his models.

A fair amount of my time on any job is spent researching the subject and consulting photos of the full-size machine," he said. "I have a pretty extensive library built up over 20-some years."

He has entered many contests with his work and seems to "always walk away with a trophy for something," Hawkey said. Even after building hundreds of these, I still get a kick out of seeing a finished aircraft."

Call Patrick Hawkey at (810) 392-3253 for more information.

 

My God. Where to start? I know what I told that woman. What appeared in print reads like a computer translation of a foreign language compared to what I said. A disjointed mess. "Capt. Hawkey?" That was a pure invention on the reporter's part. Nobody ever called me Capt. anything until this article appeared. Afterward, that was forever my name at Old Guard Hobbies. Al posted a copy of the article on his office door, and busted me over it for a long time.

But the real killer was the picture. I had spent so much time and energy trying to cultivate the idea that what I did was serious business. "Art" vs. some hobby/crafty activity, if you will. I hoped my association with The Military Art Gallery would've suggested such a thing. But the big illustration was some goof playing with his toy airplanes. And there was no taking it back. My only hope was that it would be seen by few and soon be forgotten.

Within a week I got a call from somebody offering me a laminated copy of the article for a fee. Something to show my great grandkids? I declined the offer. Shortly after that, I got a call from one Jeannie Gunn who had a position on the Home Improvement TV show staff. Apparently Tim Allen, the star and part-time Detroit suburb resident got a copy of that Detroit News out in California. He was (and maybe still is) a model plane and car fan and wanted to know more. (In fact I met him briefly years before at the Madison Heights Squadron Shop over a red '63 Corvette model I'd painted for a guy to sell to him. He was a local stand-up comic at the time. Most unlikely he remembered me.) I tried to explain to Ms. Gunn what I was all about; mainly that I didn't have models on hand to sell, but that I built what was requested. How 'bout I send Mr. Allen one of my introductory letters and a bunch of photos. If he was interested we could go from there.

Believing this might be my chance of a lifetime, I put together a big package of material, including a copy of some FineScale Modeler with one of my articles in it. Away I sent it to Walt Disney Studios, Burbank, CA. Still waiting to hear from that now-famous homeboy...

 

 

 

 

 

Visitor's Day

1975 was a new year, I was 19 and falling in love. The object of my affection was a high school senior named Theresa, and I wanted to show her my very first true love -- fighter jets. This was not too difficult as Selfridge ANGB and its resident F-100s and F-106s were a short 25 miles away.

Theresa's total exposure to airplanes had been the occasional Cessna or Piper over her house and the airliner that took her to visit family in Pennsylvania from time to time. I wanted her to experience the sight and sound of real airplanes first-hand. So on a brilliant winter's day she got out of school early, and we drove to the base.

This is something I'd done many times the year before with a pal of mine when we were high school seniors. In Dave's Pinto we'd head for Selfridge immediately after our last class in hopes of seeing jets come and go. Based solely on our observations, it seemed both Fighter Squadrons (the 127th in F-100s and the 191st in F-106s) would launch an afternoon mission around two. They'd arrive back home between three and four and with luck and a lot of fuel on board, proceed to do touch-and-gos for an audience of at least two excited spectators. Luck weighed heavily in our trips. Some days, for reasons we could only guess at, nobody would fly but a Navy Reserve S2F or a Coast Guard HH-3. These would be frustrating sorties for us. If it wasn't loud and fast with a pointy front end, it just didn't count.

The day I took Theresa out there was a glorious one to gamble on some fighter action; zero clouds and a slight blanket of snow. Light reflected up from the snow onto low-flying jets against a perfect blue background was a visual thrill. In the case of the light gray 106s the effect was amazing. They seemed to glow up there. It was something that had to be seen to be appreciated. The zoomers had to fly on a day like this. They had to! 

On the way, I outlined to Theresa our best case scenario. First we'd stop and scope out the action on the apron. From North River Road, the Air Guard side of the base spread out in a huge vista. We'd see all the jets lined up a mile or so away. The dark Super Sabres were on the left and the light Delta Darts on the right. Listening hard, maybe we'd hear the distant whine of idling J-57s or J-75s. That noise would be coming from the four, six (or if luck was really with us, EIGHT) planes with the flashing red lights on their backs. Those would be the players for today. Once they started to roll and we could see which taxi-way they were heading for, we'd know if they were taking off to the north or south.

If it was south, we were cool. A mile to the west was the end of the runway, and that's where you wanted to be. Takes all of a minute and a half to get there. A take-off to the north meant a race back to I-94, scream the three miles to the Hall Road exit, with fingers tightly crossed all the way that there'd be a minor glitch at last-chance so you'd be in position at the north end of the base before the first jet released brakes. In position to observe, with or without binoculars, you'd see the sparkling red beacons far in the distance. The un-synchronized flashing on the spines and bellies would mark the jets' travel as they pulled out of last-chance,slowly taxiing in profile a short distance to the active, where they'd turn and face us. After a couple moments you'd see oily smoke rise as throttles were advanced in a test run-up. If the guages said all was fine, the smoke would roil up again -- then here they'd come.

If the day was still, you'd hear and almost feel in your feet the far away roar. Once you could see forward movement, things would happen quickly. One, or preferably two, needle-nosed glistening gray Delta Darts would lift and swiftly rise off the ground. That distant roar would desperately be trying to catch them as they'd rush at us a-climbing, then the smoke trails would appear. Out of afterburner and into mil-power, the air intakes inhaling vast amounts of air to create an un-earthly howl -- a sound to make banshees run for cover. This howl blended to a chest-rattling roar as the interceptors passed overhead. But you didn't watch them for long because one or maybe two more were right behind them. Encore!

Believe me Theresa, this is a spectacle to behold.

We arrived about 2 p.m. and parked on a side road just off North River. Trudging through snow to the perimeter fence (with its signs strongly dissuading us from trying  to get o the other side), I handed Theresa the binoculars. The two rows of dark shark-like jobs are F-100s, I inform her. The light gray broad-tailed ones are F-106s. Huns and Sixes. Magnificent machines. However, the scene was like a still photograph.

But for the wind -- always windy at this vast flat expanse of real estate -- there was not a sound. No blinking red lights. No movement. It looked distressingly like a scene from one of those end-of-the-world movies where everyone's dead from some virus. We watched a very cold and stiff Air Force base.

"Damn!" I thought. "There has to be some flying today. There has to be! We must've missed the take-offs. They must be up now, and we'll see them when they come back." At any rate, that's the story I told Theresa. Hands deep in pockets, we headed back for the car with a lot of time to kill. How clever it would've been to have packed along some hot cocoa.

For most of the next half-hour we drove around the outside of the south end of the base and I identified what few distant points of interest I could. Hangars, base ops., transient area, C-130s, etc. Big wow. Who cares. Not your guide, that's for sure. When the south side highlights are taken in, I drove back to the E-way that will take us north to the other side of the base. All the while I scanned the sky.

Hall Road is the two-lane stretch bordering the opposite perimeter. I pulled onto the shoulder as we came up on the array of approach lights marking the path that guides all our aluminum winged friends home. Right here, right over our heads is where they'll be, I assured Theresa. I stared to the north looking for black specks, smoke trails or the daytime stars of landing lights. Nothing.

Staying there on the side of the road wasn't a good option. The Macomb County sheriffs took a dim view of any stopping or standing, and getting busted was not a way to impress a girlfriend. A girlfriend I suspected, who was getting a bit bored with it all at this point. I proposed we drive another mile to an industrial park, ditch the car and walk back to our spot near the lights. Jets would arrive momentarily. Theresa said fine.

So I parked and we hiked back along the gravel shoulder. Cars whizzed past we two pedestrians and I wondered what the drivers thought. I wondered what besides, "What are those two idiots doing strolling in the middle of no place on a cold day like today?" I searched the sky from horizon to horizon. Where were they? I pointed out the alert barns and the S2Fs parked on the Navy side of the base. At this point, even a Tracker in the air would've been exciting. Even a Tracker.

Shadows grew long and extremities grew numb. The sky remained perfectly clear and perfectly empty. Alone, I'd have toughed it out a little longer, but I was cold so Theresa must've been freezing. She'd been a good sport, but enough had been asked of her this day. I admit defeat.  A crushing defeat. "I can't believe nobody would fly on a day like this," I told her. "I can't believe it! I'm sorry I dragged you out here." 

"Oh, that's alright," she said.

But what else would she say? What did she really think? What damage had I inflicted on this fledgling relationship? My mood was dark with those thoughts as we turned around for the car. On top of that, my blood had been up to see some jet action, girlfriend or no girlfriend. This was double-dose disappointment. I stared at the gravel in front of my feet as we walked. Crunch, crunch. We went a way in silence, then Theresa said, "Oh look!"

I looked up at her and she was pointing back at the base. Climbing straight up over the mid-point of the runway was a delta silhouette, followed by his No.2. (Not a little ironic that it's the rookie that spots the quarry that day.)

"SIXES! Aw-RIGHT!"

I stared in amazement. Where did they sneak in from? What were they doing? In all the times I'd come out here, I'd never seen behavior like this. Steep climbs over the airfield? What did these guys have for lunch? They rolled out of their climbs heading south and set up for what had to be a short final approach. Theresa and I turned around and trotted back toward the lights. Please don't land. One pass over us. Please. just one...

My eyes glued on the leader lining up on the runway in the distance. He was sinking pretty fast and pretty low. My own heart started to sink fast and low. The guy was touching down. There was going to be no show. But wait...where were the landing lights? I stopped in my tracks and stared hard. Delta lead was not landing. He was streaking down the length of the runway at about 20 feet of altitude! "Ho-leee..."

The nose kicked up a bit and No.1 began a right bank over the lights, wing dipped toward us. The late afternoon light reflected off the snow and illuminated him beautifully. What a sight! What a sound! But hold on...

"Wow! Theresa gasped.

I quickly looked back to see No.2 hard on the heels of his leader. As the second jet repeated the performance, black pointy tail, black spine and wingtips were as plain as day. And he was low and close enough to plainly read PENNSYLVANIA on the tail.

"102s! Those are F-102s!"

"What?" Theresa shouted.

"Those are F-102s! Delta Daggers!"

It meant nothing to Theresa, but I was  beside myself. I hadn't seen an F-102 in the air since I was a little kid. And I'd never seen anything this low and close ever. As they arced around, staying in sight over Achor Bay, I explained to Theresa what she was seeing. This was incredible. Pennsylvania Air Guard F-102s (the F-106's older sister) were beating up Selfridge! Again they lined up on the runway in trail, dropped low then popped up in a steep short climb over the center of the airfield. At a couple thousand feet or so, they pulled around into another short final and another low, low level pass straight down the runway. For interceptor pilots, those PA boys seemed to like it down in the weeds...

Who's cold now? Who'd belive this? A virtually private air show for my girlfriend and me! Or was this for the benefit of someone on base? Or were they trying to get someone to come up and play? A third time they repeated the performance, then they thundered off to the east. Although Theresa was impressed enough with what we've seen and heard, I tried make her understand what an event we'd just witnessed.

Thirty years and much fast jet viewing later, that afternoon is still an event in my mind. To this day I wonder what brought those out-of-state visitors to Selfridge that winter's day to put on a little air show. I marvel at my fortune to have been there to see it. I'd like to tell those two Pennsylvanian pilots there was at least one guy in attendance who'll never forget it. And to say thanks.